Your Essence, A Whisper
by VegetaCold
Summary: Vegeta has trouble moving on from Frieza's odd actions in the past, which have kept him grounded there and have seemingly made him his forever. But his new lover Goku is determined to break their bond so he and Vegeta can be together once and for all, but the question lingers: is Vegeta really ready to move on just yet?
1. A Change, Forever

His hands were gentle—as they always were, always when I was good, the good boy he wanted me to be. I suffered no abuse from him if I kept in line, and I did, sadly, but I did, probably to my father's chagrin wherever he—or his soul, I suppose—roams within the confines of this universe (surely he has not gone to heaven), if he can see me. But I'm not supposed to care—at least, that's what my master tells me, over and over every day, repeated like some sacred chant or ritual in order to keep peace, as he might envision, forever stable. He tells me softly in my ear each day that my father is dead, and that there is no shame which should come from my own obedient and humiliating actions.

"He can't see you, my sweet prince," he'd murmured recently in my ear as I lay beside him, wrapped in his arms and warmth which somehow provided some comfort to me, the comfort which I so desperately wanted to hide. "You don't have to be concerned with him anymore. Concern yourself with me, my sweet one; the one who will forever fulfill your needs and keep you grounded."

That voice was soft, seductive, sometimes sexually, as his hands grip my hardened member and fondle it until I give into his teasing, or as he thrusts into me, tearing grunts and moans of pain and pleasure both from my throat as he steals my innocence again and again, stroking my body to such a point I feel I can't return from, where my humiliation controls my body and my lips and sadly I've already succumb. But there are also times when that voice is like that of a protector, someone I can come to for every comfort or warmth I may need, both physically or mentally. It's seductive in the sense that I cannot overcome its power and often do give into its softly inscribed commands, pouring out my secrets, my hopes and my dreams, my frustrations and emotions, everything my master could use and would long for in establishing a regime to properly control me—not that he hasn't already, but I suppose long ago when he first took me into his bed, when he first spoke to me in that beautiful way that now almost always occupies his voice in my presence, he found a great well of that crucial information, for he knows, and I do too, that I am weak beyond comprehension. I've stopped pretending, after all of my fighting with him as a young child; now, at seventeen, I've given into his needs to let myself rest—shameful, but easier of course.

Tonight was no different. Earlier today, though to my disoriented mind it seems it could have been ages ago, when I returned home—as my master, Lord Frieza tells me it is, and will always be—I was made to report to his throne room. I knew what to expect, after many a "session" with him when his longing for my body and spirit is so overflowing from months of not having me by his side, and his passion is unrivaled; I knew that when I returned he likes me to bathe, to clean my young body of impurities—though disturbingly to me now he tells me often how sweet my sweat is as I lay beneath him, how luscious my blood, like a delicacy barely tasted as he laps at my wounds, some made by him during his sexual advances, drinking all he can and licking it from his lips. I let him—never offering any protest than soft grunts and cries of pain as he does so. But when first returning, he does not like the idea that someone may have touched me—the dirt of another gracing my skin; so after a soak in the regen tank, I bathe with the soaps scented how he loves—exotic flower and musk, hints of spices or incense—which he picks out before my arrival and leaves for me. I dress in the clothes he's left me—sometimes tight underwear or some type of pants, but often nothing more than my ki-suppressing collar, a beautiful, gem encrusted thing which gleams and, as he says, compliments my eyes. In such a case I put on a robe before reporting to his throne room to hide my shame from the prying eyes of others on the ship, as requested by Frieza (I am for him to delight in, and for _only _him). I am also expected to put on perfume, to comb my hair, and to generally make myself presentable to my master. I do so, my mind wandering somewhere else, somewhere brighter.

But by the time I get to his throne room, I am usually very aroused—something that delights him with such fierceness and makes his advance on me that much more heated and done more quickly. As for me, I don't know what exactly makes me aroused; maybe it's having bathed and prepared myself (I have a light suspicion that something in the soap he gives me is the culprit, but I do recognize that such thoughts are most likely just an attempt to save my pride and relinquish my shame), or perhaps bluntly it is an effect of my anticipation for the activities which my young body will soon be subjected to. Either way, I try not to think about it. Simply I make my way to his throne room, torn: should I walk quickly so that those I pass do not see my erection, or slowly so that I can prolong my humiliation? Always, I chose the former—in the hallways there is more pain to be had than with my master, who has led me to believe, maybe falsely, that he understands me and will never judge me; will take me in with open arms. But those who don't understand will tease me and again I will be reminded of my dishonor, the things that I do with Frieza and which I do alone which would make my father turn away from me and refuse to address me as son. Sadly now, I find more comfort (not the healthy kind that a child derives from its parents and their embrace but the kind a child lost in the dark cold wilderness might a tattered blanket left behind, or a bush to provide enough cover so that they may sleep peacefully) in my master's arms than I do with the idea of being reunited with my father—in fact, I dread it, actually. I'm good for Frieza so that he won't have to kill me and make me face him again—and Frieza knows it, too.

This afternoon was no different. I bathed in a sweet scent which reminded me of peppermint or cinnamon and flowers, strong and light at the same time and very seductive. He left me nothing but my collar, which I took around my neck and latched without much thought. Donning my satin robe, I was already aroused, and didn't make any effort to try to quell this as might have in the past. I checked myself in the mirror and noticed, making my arousal increase, how very beautiful I looked tonight—how very feral, yet somehow tame. Moaning I looked down as I felt wetness between my legs—oh how Frieza would be pleased!—which reminded me that I must report to my master, who was impatient and would be about ready to jump on me the moment I entered. I didn't have time so clean up, and I knew Frieza would have been disappointed had I done so. Subconsciously I was already setting out to please him, as always, but again, it was so much easier not to think about it—just to do as I was told like the good boy I was.

I walked quickly, clutching my member so that it would not drip down my legs as I walked and would not be visible to others, but to my gratification the halls were relatively empty, and I made it without running into anyone. Once there, I knocked on the door.

"Yes," the voice came from inside, and I could hear the lust laced within it. "Come in, Vegeta, my love." He had of course been expecting me.

I did. Inside he sat upon his throne, a glass of blood red wine in his hands. The room was empty; Zarbon and Dodoria, who normally flanked Frieza, were rarely seen by my eyes—to my understanding, it was our private time and Frieza would not let even the closest of his henchmen intrude. Therefore I was not surprised when he gave me the command, "Come in my baby, shut the door behind you."

I did as I was told, closing the door and stepping inside the well lit room, and letting my gaze fall upon my master. He was wearing his underwear but nothing else, as if he wanted to cut to the chase the minute I entered. Immediately, I could see his eyes filled with lust and arousal, even before he began to look me over, seductively as he did. He took in the image of me with the robe on first, carefully studying me and not immediately ordering me to take my robe off as he sometimes did, as if he were trying to first formulate a mental image of me, his dream one, undressing me with his eyes before he saw the real thing.

"Turn around for me, my little one."

I did, staring at the wall now in front of me, happy to have my front, which began to drip even more and throb achingly the moment he began looking me over, out of his line of vision, if just for a minute. Unfortunately, however, my precum was beginning to drip down my legs, much to my mortification, and was forming a small puddle beneath me as thought about him looking at my backside which he would soon undoubtedly penetrate. I could hear Frieza purring even from the distance between us—and he could wait no longer.

"Turn around my sweet prince, take off your robe, let Frieza see you."

Grunting with the discomfort of my member, I turned, and let the robe fall away from my shoulders and onto the ground. Nude except for my neck-piece, he now once again looked me over, his purrs growing exponentially louder as they settled on my erection, dripping even more now. I couldn't stifle a little moan which trickled out my throat, brought on by my intense arousal at watching him watch me. This made his purrs become so loud I thought I could hear them echo throughout the room, but what was more—he had quite an erection himself now, too.

"Oh my poor sweet Vegeta, have you missed your master so much, really?" he asked me softly after a minute, swirling his wine glass in amusement, his eyes still locked onto my groin.

I knew what he wanted, and I would not withhold it from him, of course not. "Y-yes master Frieza," I stuttered, uttering a little gasp at the end, so incredibly uncomfortably, and wanting nothing more than release of this feeling. Frieza knew it, too, but he liked to tease me and I was not ignorant to the fact that he would not give me this release for a while, until I worked for it; it aroused him to see me uncomfortable and completely at his mercy, as was typical of him.

"Tell me, Vegeta," he murmured softly, a seductive smile gracing his lips. "What goes through your mind right now? What are you thinking of to make you so nice and hard and wet?"

That was an odd question—certainly, one he hadn't asked before. Of course, he didn't skip the foreplay just because he was yearning for this release, too—especially if I wasn't already aroused, he would make it a point to bring me there, so that I would be more pleasurable to him when he came onto me—but this was odd. Typically, he would ask me to come to him, and I would. He'd sit me in his lap, spread my legs, and nudge my entrance with his erection or use his fingers to explore, or both, or would simply fill me while stroking and tugging at my limp member, all the while purring and murmuring in my ear until I got up. It didn't take long, and once I did, he'd typically finish me until I came before actually beginning our intercourse. He didn't ask me how I felt, not before our sex, at least, and I had thought that was simply because it wasn't a concern for him—he could get me up this way and it would be much quicker and more pleasurable to him (or so I thought, and wouldn't think again after this odd, humiliating night, because I had no idea what I was in for). Still, as an obedient servant, I would answer him, and unfortunately I would do it truthfully (at least, truthfully in the sense that I was not lying, but I was not gratifying it either simply because it was truthful), something I regret now as I lay next to him and we are both filled with the knowledge of what I had done, and what I'd said, thought about.

"Y-you m-master Frieza," I grunted, my member dripping more and now throbbing so painfully I wanted to scream. "I t-think of you."

His purring immediately grew louder, if that were possible; his erection, longer. The tone of sexuality and seduction in his voice increased dramatically, his eyes dimming with need. "Oh, do you now, my sweet, sweet little prince? And what about your master makes you so aroused, hmm?"

I didn't really know what he expected me to tell him—after all, I hardly knew myself why I was so aroused, though of course in the back of my mind the idea resided that I could be genuinely attracted to Frieza and could be reeling in anticipation of what he would do to me, how he would turn me out. But could I tell him this? Something so revealing and personal, so essential in my downfall? Would I be able to tell him? What was more—did I want to? So many people in my future, I would come to learn and know so well, would ask me how I'd survived Frieza—how'd abused me, or how he'd murdered my dreams and turned me into a monster; but was that actually _true_? How easy was it for me, in truth, to tell him everything he might want, how the words slipped softly off my tongue and into his close ears, as if he were anything but that killer they fabled. I was so broken and maybe my hesitance was simply from my own uncertainty about my feelings. Would I tell him? Yes; who else was I to confide in? My dead father or mother, who would reel in shame at my feelings. I juggled the idea that I loved my master with my hate for what he had made me and tried to make sense of them; only in him would I find the answers or at least a placation so that I would not continue to endlessly ponder. He was there, always, to remove that burden.

So I did my best—after all, so used as I was I found no reason to hide anything else; no reason as he'd already explored the very reaches of my body and mind, every crevice, each night when we made love. I was his, all his, and perhaps it was unfair to him to withhold what he should be so rightfully entitled to.

"Y-you," I stuttered; because I didn't know what I was feeling I told him what I wanted—what he deserved. "Y-you my master, e-everything about you…t-take me…"

Well—I hadn't expected to give him that much, and I was surprised about my own words. But I at least knew that they were half truthful, because I was longing for release so badly, wanting nothing more than to leave my body and escape the excruciating pain and pleasure of my humiliating arousal. At least, I would muse gently, detached, unreal, my master was pleased—but unfortunately he was not the type to provide such release when he was enjoying himself, as he was now, and as I've told you.

"Oh, sweet boy, calm yourself—patience. You will feel me inside you soon enough, but lately I've been thinking about our relationship…tell me my prince, have you? Do you think about me when we are apart? Do you long for my arms around you?"

I would now say whatever I could in order to gain my release more quickly, even if it meant succumbing to these games he played. I suppose I hadn't realized then how much control I'd really let him have over me—how much he _really _controlled my life, each and every aspect. Truly, after twelve years of servitude, I was a hull, an empty shell which found it easier to linger in this darkness rather than to kindle a fire of rebellion and take back my body, my mind, my heart. This man was cruel in so many ways, so tactful, so purposeful, meaningful, so caring…my love…

"Y-yes, always…always…"

He smiled at me; not the kind of smile which he sometimes regards his business persons with but the genuine, loving smile—that which has been solely reserved for me. "Do you, my Vegeta? Do you really?"

"Y-yes—m-master please, I'm aching."

"Vegeta, prince, you can be very one-track minded, my love, you know this? Try to practice some patience, child. I know that I arouse you, but is that all you think of me? Do you only think of my physical pleasure, that which I give you? Perhaps I have given you too much," he said, and I could hear it—his purring was swiftly lightening, his tone almost returning to normal, and he was just barely hanging on to his erection.

"N-no, master, n-no, b-but I can't…n-not now…please…"

Sighing, he picked up his wine glass and stirred it lazily. "Fine Vegeta, you may rub yourself until you're done."

I couldn't believe it; it was the first time I think he'd ever refused to take me, especially not when I cried for him to fill me and to pleasure me. But it was then that I realized there was something instantly different about him—something overriding his lust, and I thought: perhaps I've gone _over _the top with this, perhaps I've turned him off. Is he so concerned with this meaningless stuff that he will not just quell my arousal? I was so dumbfounded, because this was not the Frieza I knew—the Frieza who wanted anything from me but my body and my obedience and to hear something other than a robotic programmed speech about how I loved him. This Frieza was suddenly more concerned about my actual _soul _than my dripping member which he had previously so craved, and I could only wonder distantly—what had changed? And so quickly? There had been no clothing for me—nothing but my ki-collar. A sultry fragrance. His evaluation of my body, his wondering what about him aroused me. Where had it gone wrong? Was it simply that I had begged so thoroughly for release, and if so, why was that suddenly a problem when it had never been before?

Still I wanted it done—over with, more than I wanted anything at that moment. I sat on the floor, laid back and spread my legs, and gripped my member and rubbed. Oddly my confusion was making me more aroused and I knew it would not take long, and I could confront this odd new Frieza then. I barely thought about what I was doing—how I was rubbing myself in front of my master, how I was grunting and moaning, how he most likely thought correctly that I was thinking of him, how he'd been rubbing himself as he watched me…which was somehow okay yet when I wanted release I could gain none? Of course, it was a double standard—a game played by him which he could control, in which his piece could do whatever it wanted. I was a little powerless, shapeless nub on that chessboard.

When I came, I laid on the ground, panting, and in an instant I found my master standing over me, looking down at me, his pants off but now no indication that he had masturbated to my actions (how foolish I was really, especially because now like myself he was completely flaccid). I looked up at him with eyes that were washed in pleasurable haze, sleepily; now I felt no need to go to him, of course, and if I had been perceptive I would have realized that that had been his problem—I was too attached to his body and what it gave me. He was my master, and he wanted more—not just the feelings I always gave him, that information, but how I felt about _us_. It was about time that he finally had a clear idea of where I stood, I guessed.

He sat down by my head on the ground and looked at me for a moment, before leaning down and gently kissing lips. I kissed back as I'd learned to, if half-heartedly. Luckily, it wasn't that sexual a kiss, but it was passionate on his part, loving. It was an interaction but not a call for sex or arousal. I tried to mimic it but could not; it was not one I knew when I lived in a world starkly divided between sex and pleasure and pain and zero emotion, a dead-between world like state, where there was no feeling. And there was no middle ground here—none. I couldn't—at seventeen, so lost and exhausted and abused, stolen, used, I knew none, even if I'd poured my emotions out to him time and time again, but now I know that I did so because like that erection I'd needed release, and could not get it without my partner. Those moments of weakness were nothing more than a forced action after time and time again of being pressured, by my own mind itself, to find some kind of attachment to something in this world so that I did not feel so alone—so that I could stay grounded and would not leave as my race had years before, without a trace. It was all fake, forged, and sloppily so, illegally, painfully, destructively. He was my love yet I did not love him. We had benefits, but were just acquaintances. Nothing more. Yet tonight was the night it would all change. Tonight, the two of us would come together, and he would become more than my provider—he would become the other half of my soul and I would truthfully find our separation painful. I would moan for him not of arousal but sadness, would purr simply when we were in the same room and not only when he touched my crotch. Things would change, for how, I don't know.

"How do you feel, prince?" he said when he broke the kiss. His purring was returning and I dully noted it, not caring much.

"Fine, master Frieza," I mumbled, really longing for sleep now that I'd gotten rid of that painful extension. My mission had been arduous and really there was not much more I wanted now than to curl up beneath the thick covers of my bed and lose myself in sleep—deep, warm sleep.

Of course, my perceptive master knew this, too—but I did not expect that it would make him very irritated.

"Sleepy already, my sweet love? Oh, such a predictable boy you are, you know that? When you came here you wanted nothing more than for me to rub out your little erection, and then to just lay down and go to sleep without giving me a second glance. Such a little, mean liar you are sometimes my sweetheart. I love you but, oh, I wish I didn't. I would have killed you so long ago did I not, because you are such a self, spoiled little brat, and I still wonder how I can love such an inconsiderate child. Ah, but here we are, are we not?"

My sleepy haze had left, and I was just staring up at him with these eyes which I am really sure were very wide and wet with stark fear—nothing short of horror. I was sure he'd strike my face, kick my crotch, grab at my throat, twist my tail until I howled with pain and odd pleasure. He would bind my hands and lash me until I screeched, choke me until I went blue in the face, bang my head against a wall until his frustrations were wiped out. And instantly I recoiled, for this fate was one experienced too often for me to expect anything else.

He sighed—but miraculously he did none of these things.

"Poor Vegeta, poor Vegeta, I'm not going to hurt you…not anymore…I'm going to make you mine, finally, my little one, and I will never have to hurt you any longer, and you, my baby, will never have to hurt me. All of our pain will be gone," he said softly, looking down at me, and I felt his hand gently touch my thigh, a comforting, lover's touch, yet still I could not help flinching. Thankfully he didn't seem fazed, and was rather more concerned for me—amazingly, but was. "Relax my love. Relax. Now, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that—you have every reason to be sleepy. You've done well on your mission. We will let you sleep before we continue, so your head will be clearer and you will be awake. I want you awake—I want you to enjoy it." He smiled at me, again, that reserved-for-Vegeta smile.

I didn't know what he was talking about—the idea of sex crossed my mind of course, but why would that be different from anything else we'd ever done before? And why was he talking about making me his? Hadn't he _already_ done that the first night he took me into his bed and tore into me until I dripped with crimson blood? Of course, my mind could have probably tried to process this information and formulate some explanation—and probably would have—but I didn't really have that much time to think about it, as he was already scooping me up off the ground and pulling my robe back around my shoulder.

"Come, Vegeta, time for bed. I'll tuck you in tonight, would you like that?"

…Tuck me in? Had he ever done such a thing?—actually, had Frieza and I ever _not_ been in the bed _together_? Still my mind could not wrap itself around Frieza now, this new, suddenly changed Frieza, the Frieza who'd seemed to make up his mind the minute he'd asked me how I felt about him and when I'd asked him for release. This change was odd for me, and even if our old relationship had been far from perfect, it was still one I'd come to know, and it was at this point something of comfort, the familiarity of it. I felt upended, but I still remembered my duty to provide him with the answers he wanted, and didn't imagine that would change with whatever he had planned—whatever that was.

"O-oh….y-yes master, I would…"

He smiled at me, very gently, his eyes filled with understanding as he reached up a gentle hand to caress my cheek. "You've been lying to me for a very long time, have you not, my Saiyan Prince Vegeta? Answer me honestly, I will not hurt you."

The words slipped out—from somewhere within me, the coffin within the soil that comprised this mask of falseness where I had buried by true self, before Frieza, during the glory days, they came from within that coffin, and they were so strong that I could not stop them, not even if I'd had time to think about it. "Yes, master."

He closed his eyes but the smile didn't leave. "Ah, my poor prince…you have been wronged by me…for a very long time, my prince…too long…and I want you to know that I never wanted to have you that way…I wanted you to love me naturally, you know that? But when you wouldn't…" he shook his head and looked back at me, smiling gently. "Don't worry my beautiful prince, you and I will soon understand each other, and you will feel for me what I have felt for you since the moment I laid my eyes on you. You will realize it within you."

Not knowing how else to respond, I gently said, "Yes master."

"That's my good prince," he purred, and the two of us fell into a kiss once again, he of course leading and my lips disorientedly following in a thick haze of confusion and uncertainty, but I lingered there, almost enjoying the comfort it brought me; in fact, he broke the kiss, smiling when he saw that I was still slumped over, my lips open and my eyes half closed, realizing that I was probably disappointed that our moment, this one so foreign to me, had ended. But he was concerned with my rest.

To placate me, he kissed my forehead and ran his fingers through my hair gently, and used his tail to lead me until I rested against his chest. "Don't worry, my love, we will continue this after you've had a nap. Come, let me put you to bed—I know you feel uncomfortable about it now, but soon you won't be able to shut your beautiful eyes without my command."

I followed him to my bedroom, not far from his own for those past, now seemingly meaningless reasons, which I had once thought all powerful and solely-dominating in our relationship. Perhaps in the future, when whatever this change was he talked of had been conducted, it would change. Maybe we'd sleep in the same room, every night no matter what. My mind was spinning with thoughts like this and others, still when we entered my bedroom and he pulled my robe off of my shoulders and led me to the bed, where the covers had been turned back, as if in anticipation for some upcoming bout of sex. He helped me to sit down and undid the latch on my ki-controlling collar.

He smiled as he set it down. "We won't need this anymore, Vegeta, even though you look gorgeous wearing it. But imagine it, dear prince, imagine never having to be restrained, to be able to freely express your delicious strength my Vegeta? Does that please you?"

I was so overwhelmed with all these ideas, which were being flung at me too quickly for me to catch and process, and I couldn't formulate a response of any kind. My brain, exhausted already from my mission couldn't fit these pieces together, and was not looking to, at least until I'd gotten some good sleep. Luckily, Frieza, again perceptive, realized my predicament.

"Oh, don't worry, we'll talk about this later, nap time now. Come, into bed."

I swung my legs onto the bed with his help and he pulled the thick covers up over my body and smoothed them, in a loving, maternal way, one which I would barely take note of in my state of now half-sleep.

"Good, Vegeta, close your eyes, rest—relax your mind, for all your questions will be answered when you wake. Rest now, Vegeta, my love, rest. Sleep."

My eyes were made to close shut when he kissed each lid, and I was put to sleep instantly.


	2. Don't Hold Back

"Vegeta."

His lips were soft as he pressed them against my clammy skin, cold from the chill that had struck that night on my new home, this odd planet Earth where I now reside with my newest lover; everything new, I noticed dreamily—so odd and foreign to me, though had my life ever been anything I could call comforting? Again I would realize distantly that I had become so used to that other touch—that of my master—and this new friend I had used his hands differently. He spoke differently—addressing me as a companion and an equal, truthfully equal, not the falsified kind that Frieza wanted to establish after that night I thought of now. To Kakarot, I was just as much in charge of how things worked in our relationship, and though I should have appreciated this, I was left feeling so distraught, empty, craving something more—as if I actually _wanted _him to take control of me and put me in my place. Was I craving humiliation, the relentless whip, those commands given endlessly? Craving is the right word here because of course it's not something I like—rather something I now, after years of becoming accustomed to it in Frieza's care, seem to have trouble faring without.

I fight Kakarot, hoping he will push back.

Grunting, I used my naked hands to push him away from me, where he had been groping my exposed crotch with his own hands, moist and strong, the opposite of my other lovers, which were cool and delicate but strong and commanding—the hands of a leader. Kakarot's where clumsy, inexperienced, yet somehow possessing such an odd sense of confidence—as if he were so sure of his skills and strength that he would just wing whatever he was doing and it would turn out okay—and it always did. My new lover, like my old, always got what he wanted, but I made it a point to make him work for it—to make him make _me_, to make him push me into obedience, to make him act more like…Frieza…isn't that what I want?

"Screw you, Goku," I said softly, slowly making my way out of his arms and over to the window, where I noticed my reflection in the light of a lamppost cast outside. There it was snowing lightly but Kakarot still insisted on keeping the window open, wanting me to gain warmth from his arms, and himself from me. I was cold and I had fought him for a while about this, arguing that with my immune system weakened after several failed lab experiments by Bulma's father, who was determined to study Saiyan anatomy but had done more successfully in infecting me with a strong Earth virus by accident. It was the last time I would ever give in and allow myself to be studied, no matter how my lover pushed me into it, arguing that he himself could not do it because he had been exposed to this planet much longer than I. I did, but the last incident left me feeling angry and bitter, and I was much feistier than I had been before, especially when it came to moronic ideas my lover insisted on executing, like leaving the window open in such extreme cold. But he had wrestled me gently into bed as he had me locked in a kiss, and he wrapped us in a blanket so I couldn't move an inch. I let him snuggle against me, dozing for a while after a long day of training, but when I woke I was even more agitated and insisted upon getting up.

Inwardly, I was probably hoping he would have refused—maybe taken me first, or ordered me to pleasure him, or maybe simply commanded that I hush and lay still as my master had oh so long ago. But he was not that type of person; Kakarot was playful and intent on teasing, but if he knew I was truly upset or irritated he would not put up a fight and would give into me. Another part of me probably liked this control—but again, it was just so _different _from what I had lived, and what I had come to like because my old lover had made our interactions so…pleasurable, no matter how I was harmed or humiliated…

The idea that I actually could have liked our relationship was one that made me quiver in shame—made me want to hide my head, curl into a tight ball in the corner and hope my father or mother (all the saiyans, actually) weren't watching, couldn't hear my thoughts. But my master told me over and over they couldn't hear me—they were long gone, and after our special night together my lover promised to make the two of us immortal so we could be together for the rest of eternity, so that our love would never be lost as the Saiyans and their planet had been. And I remember how that had been one of those moments when I had really cared for Frieza—simply the idea that he would want to keep me with him for eternity—and I remember actually leaning in and kissing him, passionately, initiating what he almost always had. He was surprised, but he quickly resumed dominance and within a few moments I had felt myself filled again, for the third time that night. And the worst? I had enjoyed it—thoroughly, grunting and moaning as I was taken again and again, several times after the third. I had thrust with him, spreading my legs to give my master better entrance, begging him softly to go deeper and harder and to push me into the bliss only he could give me. But what was more—I had told him how I loved him as I nodded off that night—I had professed my love to him, openly, so truthfully, again and again and begged him never to leave me. I cried until he kissed my eyes enough to dry them and to placate me, he tugged on my tail until I was asleep.

The next morning, I woke snuggled against him, and saw that he was still asleep; carefully so as not to wake him, I squirmed out of his arms and tail and waddled out of bed, still in pain from the night before, my legs sticky with my congealed blood and the results of our pleasure. I ran away, not taking time to soak in the regin tank, or even to clean the fluids from my body—simply, I ran into my pod and pulled on a suit of mine from when I was much younger, which was tight on me. Especially snug in the groin area because of growth in my torso (not to mention, as Frieza often told me while purring, I had become very well endowed), it squeezed my abused genitals so thoroughly it hurt to shift even slightly, much less walk or battle, but I didn't care—I had to get out, because that night I had made those ideas, so dreadful to me but so realistic, finally, truthfully, appear before my eyes. I saw them—what I had become, the moment I woke up and remembered the previous night. I came here, where I now reside with Kakarot—to get away from Frieza, because it was true; I liked our relationship…actually, I loved it—loved _him_.

And there is something very disturbing to me which I wouldn't really recognize until I came face to face with my master once again after our long, painful separation—I needed him, more than I needed anyone else. I needed my master after our special night together so long ago, so long that it seems like a dream, a distant yet vivid memory. I knew that what he planned to do that night would truly make me his, yet I didn't know how _much_—how much I would ache when the two of us were apart, when he wasn't there for me to touch and to be held by and whose voice was a constant comfort to me. Like a sap, I had fallen in love—maybe forced, maybe because of what he had done, but I did it, too. I was a part of our bonding, and even though it would be so much easier and less shameful to blame everything on him, I can't deny the truth—I bit him, too, and I did it willingly, longingly, wanting to be close to my master as he had made himself close to me when he sunk his sharp teeth into my neck and fed upon my blood. And from that moment on, I would find no greater pleasure than to be near him—and no greater pain than to be separated; that was why I had to return to him after my defeat on Earth (which I truthfully believe was caused by my distraction back "home", the one I missed with every ounce of soul I possessed, because if I had been completely present and completely myself I would have had no trouble smoking these earthlings)—it was too painful to be apart. And the idea I had had initially, to make myself immortal instead of having us both gifted with an eternity, and to kill him so that I would not fall victim to him any longer, so that I could regain my honor and take back my soul and body but most importantly my mind, seemed so silly, so unfair, so _wrong_…The idea that I would kill Frieza to me became the equivalent if I were to have murdered my own father and mother, for Frieza was my love.

When I found out that he was searching for the dragonballs himself, I felt such pain, such searing pain—the pain of betrayal, if you've ever felt it. Hypicritical it might have been, though I justified my betrayal of him as being due to my weak emotions, which I recognized. I was telling myself he should have known and should have come to Earth, taken me back, perhaps lashed me a few times, but in the morning everything would be back to normal—order restored. Maybe I was simply begging for attention, gratification in leaving him, but either way I was so surprisingly hurt that my plan now seemed much more achievable, as if my mother or father had killed my brother or a cherished pet—I could have killed him. And determined to confront him for shattering my heart, I tried.

But oh, life—the two of us almost walked away, maybe not immortal, but almost…until _Kakarot_ returned…

Needless to say, I have some animosity toward my new lover—on so many levels, especially when I still find myself wondering how I ended up in this guy's arms in the first place; and I can affirm that I am more confused with myself and my intentions more than I have ever been in the entirety of my life, with so many ideas constantly spinning, so many needs to be fulfilled…and sometimes Kakarot can't, try as he might, not as Frieza would…

So I ask again: why am I here, now counting on this other Saiyan to provide for me?

"Vegeta, what's wrong?" Kakarot asked, pulling me easily back into his arms. I only offered a small squeak of protest, and blushed when he picked me up and carried me to the bed as if I were a baby. "Come on, why are you being so cold to me?"

"Don't treat me like that," I snapped, even though it was the kind of thing I was constantly convincing myself I wanted—that humiliation. "You're not any better than me, Goku."

"Of course I'm not," he cooed, and I felt him run his fingers through my hair, and suddenly I couldn't take it; I shoved out of his arms, and as a result he fell from the bed with a thud which echoed throughout that room, empty aside from the place for love-making.

He looked up at me with wide, disoriented eyes—stunned, perhaps best put. In the two years of our partnership, I had never hurt him once—in fact, he had actually been more rough with me than I had with him, and so certainly he wasn't expecting me to lash out at him in the way I had. Looking into his eyes I could see that he was stunned, yes, but he was also very hurt, and angry, as the seconds passed and he spent more time quickly considering what I had done.

"Vegeta! What was that for?" he yelled at me, and before I could answer he grabbed my ankle and roughly yanked me off the bed and onto his lap, making me cry out softly, as I, like he, had not been expecting the violence.

In a second, I found myself beneath him and pinned onto the floor, unable to move an inch—he had my tail in his hand.

"Now, you're going to stop acting like such a jerk and tell me what's wrong right now or I'm going to make you regret it, Vegeta," he hissed, and gave my tail a squeeze, making me moan gently in pain and some odd, aroused pleasure. To my embarrassment, I was erect, but it wouldn't last long as I dove back into the murky, monster-ridden ocean that was my past.

"O-okay," I said woozily, and looked up at him, knowing that my fear shown easily in my eyes, but knowing that even if he hadn't threatened me, I really didn't have a choice—after all was said and done, what I was keeping from him wasn't fair to him…to us… "I'll t-tell you…about our b-bond…"


	3. The Dream, Just Frieza

It was seven thirty when I woke up that night—after having been put to sleep at a mere three in the afternoon, I'd had a considerable nap but unfortunately woke groggier than when I gone to bed—and more disoriented. And what was more to make me regret that long slumber: such dreams I'd had—dreams I still remember now and suppose I will never forget no matter how long I live, possessing the vividness that it did. My current lover would have called it a nightmare, though I don't think so; rather, bluntly put, I think it was more of wet dream, a very pleasurable one at that. I still think of the dream sometimes at night, when it's late and my lover is asleep and I am longing desperately for pleasure, which this dream gave me, plenty. I woke that night, aroused and wet.

Frieza was a beast—an animal like creature which had stalked me through some wooded area, some place of my past which I can't place or really relate to but which I know had a significance, that though I'm not sure. I was naked, but my hair flowed around me like my old friend Raditz's when he'd been younger. As if I'd become…feral, I wild animal as our race had always been in the dark ages, and when the moon glows brightly and fully above our heads. I was a monster in this dream, a creature of the night, and so was Frieza—the dominant sort of creature that preys on the softer creatures, that which was I. As I leaned against a tree and caught my breath after what seemed like an eternity of slow motion running, I heard it howl and hiss and purr, all somehow at the same time, in nearby bushes. The wind was at a standstill, non existent, and there were no animals or other sound—simply that of the beast. And in a flash of a moment—because I was moving so slow and Frieza was moving so fast—I found myself pinned against the bark helplessly; there were claws in one of my hands and one on my waist, and a tail had struck me in the lower groin, making me lurch back into the tree.

In the night, the eyes were some of the only things I saw—and they were not that usual hellish red that they always so often seemed to be; instead, they were a bright, yet somehow diluted yellow, like that of the moon on a crisp fall night, a haunted moon lurking in the sky—or the eyes of a beast, a swamp creature or werewolf—something unpleasant. And they were fixated on my own. Another thing I saw were two sparkling, razor sharp fangs in an open mouth which glinted in the low light, maybe that cast by the eyes alone, I didn't know, but I saw them, clearly. He was foaming at the mouth, and the jaw was snapping wildly, hungrily, all the while saliva dripping onto my neck as he brought his face dangerously close.

His claws had tightened and I let out a howl as my flesh was torn in this manner, especially in the tender areas he had chosen—an exposed wrist riddled with veins and a tender thigh unused to any touch, let alone those razor sharp talons. I felt blood drip and run down my body, finding the crevices and flowing there like tiny rivers—and these only increased as the monster applied more pressure, as did my howls. Then he brought his claws out roughly and took my shoulders in his hands, and then again applied pressure. Suddenly his lips were against mine, and we were passionately engaged with each other's tongue; but this didn't last long because he sunk his teeth into mine, biting it off to silence my cries. Then—then he leaned in and licked my neck, before sinking his teeth into that flesh with such untamed ferocity that for a moment there was nothing but the feeling of sharp, undiluted pain—as if that was the entirety of my life and there was nothing but that cruel sensation.

And he fed on that blood; while my world deteriorated to red and pain ruled my domain, he fed like an animal until I drown in my own blood. And when I was dead, I watched him devour my body like the ruler of some religious and ancient people, who believed in sacrifice to their higher god.

When my eyes were open, finally, though my mind was still not quite here with me, still lost in that bloody but somehow so stimulating dream, I had them fixed upon the origin of this odd sensation I was getting—in my groin area. Beneath the sheets, which were now remarkably snug against my groin, there was a noticeable lump, which I noticed sleepily was swiftly growing as something within that cocoon was slowly and rhythmically stroking the appendage—what looked like a hand.

"Good morning, my Vegeta," a voice purred softly to me, and my eyes, still covered with a layer of sleep-fog, but which was clearing swiftly, traveled there.

"M-master…F-Frieza…" it was meant to be a question, but it came out like a statement as if I'd actually expected my master to be sitting in a chair next to my bed, watching me presumably as I slept that night and dreamed—and to be honest, I think I had. After all, after so many years of having such intimacy with my master—having him knowing all my secrets and turn ons, and, myself having somehow figured out a few of his, it wasn't as if it was an odd occurrence to wake to find him at my side—or even on top of me, or already inside me.

He smiled at me as he mused, "You're aroused already—did you have some nice dream, my Vegeta?" I noticed now, more awake, that he was purring steadily and my attention was turned to the lump beneath the tight sheets, where I had realized his missing hand was, why he was hunched over, his arm beneath the blankets. He was stroking me—again, not odd, but still unnerving, as usual, I suppose the idea that he was fondling me in my sleep and he was enjoying such a natural, uncontrolled reaction from me…but I gave those when I was awake, too, so I shouldn't have seen a problem—but there was something wrong—horrendously wrong with this night and this time and this place, more so than usual, even as perverted any actions he took or my responses in the past. Simply put—and honestly as best as I can explain it to you—something was seriously wrong.

In the past I probably would have let him finish me off, especially because I felt I was very close to release, but tonight I couldn't—tonight, this wrong night, I wouldn't give into that brief pleasure; actually, I couldn't, feeling that if I did something horrible would come about me: perhaps pain or embarrassment but what was really apparent to me, what I most expected—my death. And so tonight, exhibiting more defiance than I think I had in the entirety of my "servitude" to my master, I rolled away from his hand and to the other side of the bed, no matter how I wanted or needed that release.

I heard his hand fall to the bed with a soft _flump._

And now he wasn't smiling; he was frowning, perplexity shaping his face, and for once in perhaps the longest time he looked a lot older and a lot less attractive as I could see every wrinkle in the low light cast by the moon outside my window—almost full. Almost, he looked unnervingly, dauntingly practiced, like some war veteran or retired mortician, someone who's seen a lot of shit, and it's not the kind of shit you really want to hear about. I was drawn away from him, not toward him—which, again, such a change, because often my master provided such comfort to me, humiliating, confusing, but comfort none the less. In fact looking at him he seemed to be more of a monster than the lover I had come to know, and like something of a horror movie I really wanted to release a scream which was trapped in my throat, only held back by my lingering arousal, perhaps that, a different scream.

"Vegeta, darling…" he said, looking at me with these cold, darkening eyes. I could tell immediately that he did not like this new resistance I was exhibiting—unlike my new lover who was so receptive to my wants and needs, master Frieza was more concerned about what he wanted, and now he wanted my erection in his hands and my release straining though his white fingers. But his voice was soft, although that made it much worse; it was that controlled, I'm-trying-not-to-kill-you-right-now-Vegeta-but-you're-making-it-hard voice, the same one he'd used when he'd told me how selfish I was for wanting to go to sleep and not to simply pleasure him. It was one I really didn't like and I was almost prepared to be whipped with his thick tail across the face.

But he didn't; instead, he offered up his arms to me, holding them out as if expecting embrace, normally a loving gesture but his face was still anything but happy or joyous as I imagined might suit such body language. Seriously, he said, "Vegeta, prince, come here."

I looked at him—and I don't know where I found this courage, or why I came about this state of defiance—why I was insistent on this tonight, as if I was very sure of myself and my own actions enough that I wasn't afraid of any repercussions—but I looked my master squarely in the eyes and shook my head. I wasn't going to come to him and let him rub me just because that would have felt good, would have been what I wanted—tonight, on this the full moon, I was going to follow my instincts more than sexual desires and now I found no good in the idea of going to him. I didn't feel right about it, again, not here, not now. And I wouldn't really know why until I reflected upon it years and years later, when I decided that I had felt violated, and maybe actually was, by the dream I had had—had felt my image of my master tainted and ruined, splattered with my blood. I was afraid of him and wanted nothing more than to get away from him, not wanting to make love to him, let alone let this moment be the one we'd bond in, which I didn't know them—but again, reflecting, I think instinctually I probably had some idea of what would happen between us, if that dream was any indication. And I didn't want it to happen that way. I wanted to feel attracted to him the way he was me, even if I hadn't recognized it in the moment—more than anything I wanted to wash those feelings away in that moment.

And so my defiance really amazes me—and I suppose it would make me really proud, if there wasn't some ulterior, sexually driven motive behind it. But either way I stated gently, stuttering a little on the first syllable, "Master…I'd like to shower first. Please…I feel horrible."

I watched the sternness melt away, and I knew instantly that he was concerned for me—after all, he didn't want his prince feeling horrible; really he wanted me to feel anything but, especially in his presence. And this new face he was making at me was already making me feel better—so soft and beautiful and young, loving, understanding, but oh, it did a number on my extension. My feet were itching to hit the ground and run to the bathroom, my fingers longing to twist the nob of the faucet to the coolest setting and to arch my hips so the water would pelt me in the offending area. The idea itself made me groan. Luckily, he didn't seem to be looking here anymore—and I suppose, if I speak in my weak, emotional way, this was another thing I really liked about him; the way he was so concerned for my safety and health, how loving and maternal, qualities my new lover does not in any way possess—more than anything, Kakarot is more concerned with how he feels than anything else, which is why I don't blame his wife for leaving him. He might care for me, but he's horrid when it comes to considering others and turning attention away from his own needs for even the smallest moment—which is something my master does and can do surprisingly well, even if when he thinks he knows what's best for me he'll act upon that thought without any concern for what I want; if he thinks he can pleasure me and I need pleasure, he'll pleasure me, if he thinks I should pleasure him, he'll order me to get on my knees. He's very "considerate" that way, unlike Kakarot.

Either way, I was happy Frieza was concerned with how I felt and was looking into my eyes because if he had been looking at my crotch, he perhaps would have felt confused more than anything and would have most likely and painfully denied me the shower I so desperately wanted. And again, this was very endearing to me, because I knew he was very aroused, and very ready to do what he had been waiting years and years to do to me which would make me his forever and ever; the fact that he would be willing to wait should I feel better, made me feel so loved and so relevant, I could have given into him just then. But I needed to rinse myself; to cleanse myself of all these thoughts and to lose my mind for a few minutes, to dissolve into quiet and solitude and turn into a blank slate which my master could paint upon lovingly and sensually.

I almost jumped to my feet when he gave me the go-ahead: "Yes, of course, my angel, go have a shower, a bath if you'd like. If you're trying to get rid of that lump of yours, put a cool towel on it, but if you're ill I don't want you bathing in cold water; and I'm going to come in in five minutes to check that it's hot if you'd like to bathe yourself…" he said softly, and stood up and made his way quickly over to me, seeing that I was very eager to into the shower, wanting to catch me before I bolted away, I assumed, "but you know I'd rather do it myself. Would you like a little help, my Vegeta? I'd be happy to wash you."

Normally, I might have—but again, I wanted a cleanse; a release. I couldn't be stimulated by or near my lover until I'd released this dream, because each time I saw him I would remember those eyes. But little did I know that there would be absolutely no forgetting this dream and that in the heat of the moment, as we began this age old, time old ritual to unite our spirits, it would be that dream which drove me into my primal state and made me complete that which he had started—our sweet bond. And this erection? Well, it would leave the moment Frieza left my sight, and I would take a cool shower and feel relaxed. But when I came out, the moment I came out and saw him laying on the bed staring up at the ceiling dreamily, waiting to take me into his arms once again, I would stiffen instantly—with not a moment's hesitation. This erection, made by that horrible but somehow beautiful dream, would be the one which would drive our bond, and it would not leave without the help of my soul mate.

But for now, I'd try: "I"ll be fine," I stuttered, shrugging out of his embrace gently, not wanting to offend him, "I'd just like to take a quick shower and then go to bed. I promise I'll keep it hot."

He looked sadly at me for a moment, though the smile never left—it just sagged, I guess is the best way to explain it, and his eyes dimmed gently. But my lover was, as I said, very perceptive, and knew now I wanted and needed space, and he would respect that because he knew pushing me would get us nowhere, a battle not worth fighting when he knew he'd lose the war ultimately. But he was worried and I saw it in his eyes, easily, and I would note immediately how openly he'd appeared in that moment, just staring at me with an expression I could read clear as a book, one which said, "oh, Vegeta, (some noun, which I'd cringe at but internally loved when uttered from his purple lips, to address me, a "pet name" as I'd come to know it, a phrase Bulma's mother used a lot) I'm so worried for you, and I don't like to see you sad, it makes me sad," or something of the sort. And now reflecting upon that moment I realized that that night, he'd perhaps been the most emotional, the most open, the most free in the twelve years I'd lived on his ship and had ever seen him. I loved him for it; of course, I hate him for it, but I love him for it, too. And so even though I really needed to get away from my master, I let him hug me and I hugged him back, and I didn't squirm away as he placed a kiss on my cheek.

"Alright, my baby," he murmured between another kiss. "I want you to take a bath, and I want it hot. If it's not Frieza's going to be very angry, understand?"

"Yes, master."

I was about to pull out of his grip, feeling that that was our parting point, but he held me still, and I looked back up at him.

"Vegeta?"

"Yes, master."

"You know…I'd like you to stop calling me that," he said, running a finger through my hair and down to my cheek, tracing my jawbone. "Of course, I am your master, yes, but…you'd be better off to just call me Frieza. Would you like that?"

I was stunned, but again felt it was my duty to oblige…and I really just wanted to get out of his arms and into the shower—whatever it would take. In fact, I wouldn't really process it just yet, and would rather simply blindly obey.

"Yes m-…yes Frieza…"

He smiled at me and kissed my forehead. "That's better. Now, go, have your bath, and don't be too long. I've been missing you too long already."

"Yes…Frieza…" I remember saying. Stunned then, and still amazed now. How my master had changed—and how much I wouldn't really realize until after that night. That wonderful, hateful night which changed my life forever the minute I stepped out of the shower.

* * *

Dis some dutty love-at least, dis gon be some dutty love when ya masta stop trippin.

Well actually, I have been really busy and pretty tired. So by the time night rolls around I'm like fuck it and I just go to bed lol. But to be honest im glad I picked seeing fuckin phantom of the opera over writing this-I mean, holy crap, dat phantom make me feel like a straight girl! Like you'd think I'd be looking at Christines ya know what but instead I'm like checking out the phantom, like come get this playboy bunny like hugh heff phantom.

(clears throat) Lol, so anyway that was a long explanation of why I haven't written in the past few days, VLEER. Anyway, now I feel like hitting up that movie...mmm...one in the morning...watch the phantom or sleep...watch the phantom or sleep...

(and the funny thing is that these are two equally appealing options so I can't even say im being sarcastic) LOL.

~VC


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